Last Summer (6 page)

Dad looks like I slapped him—not once, but
possibly three or four times. “How’d you . . .” he trails off. “You
know, then?”

“Dad, seriously, I wasn’t born yesterday,
and it’s not like you’re double-oh-seven about it, either. The
worst part? I’m positive Mom knows, too. So you’re basically
contributing to her drinking problem. Way to go. You deserve a
freaking cookie.”

“You listen to me, young lady.” He growls,
latching onto my arm and squeezing a bit too hard. “You don’t know
anything. And don’t ever speak to me like that again, not under my
roof!”

It’s the alcohol speaking, because my dad
has never grabbed me before. “Let go!” I screech, which only makes
his fingers dig in harder.

“You don’t disrespect me, and you don’t
disrespect your mother, you hear me? I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll
never forget, so help me . . .” He tugs me over the back of the
couch and drops me onto the floor with a loud
thwack
. I
attempt to scurry away, like a rat looking for a hiding place, but
he grabs my ankles and pulls me toward him.

Tiny pinpricks stab my eyes as tears begin
to form. I’m not sure what’s worse—the mental pain of my dad being
so callous, or the physical pain he’s causing my body. Or is it
fear? Fear of the unknown.

“Get your hands off her, you son of a
bitch!” Mom shouts from the top of the stairs.

Dad glances from Mom to his hands, like he’s
grown an extra finger on each, and then frees me from his bond.
“I—I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry, Chloe,” he says, shaking his head
in disbelief.

Mom bounds down the stairs—a little clumsily
in her condition—with a baseball bat attached to one hand and a
violent look in her eyes. “You sick bastard. How dare you!”

It’s then I realize how soaking wet my face
is. Managing to slip out, I make it to the kitchen before I crumple
into a heap on the floor. Mom and Dad’s vicious screams wage back
and forth across the room. I curl up into a tight ball, pulling my
knees to my chin, and sob like a small child.

How
could
he? I’ve always read about
domestic situations, but never dreamed my own father would pull a
stunt like this. He was always the supportive type, the one who
took my side more than Mom. But now? He’s a shadow of the man I
thought he was. A ghost of what he could’ve been. Cheating and
alcohol will do that to a person, I guess.

The front door slams shut, rattling the
house. Mom’s at my side, soothing me, cooing in my ear, “Everything
will be all right, sweetie. You and I are going to be all
right.”

“
Will we, Mom?”
I want to say, but
the words suffocate in my throat, lost forever.

Her hand smoothes my hair over and over
again. Eventually, she coaxes me to my bedroom, where this time,
she’s the one tucking
me
in.

“I’m going to make everything all right,
baby. I promise.” And with that, she leaves.

There’s a tug in my mind, pushing a thought
forward, explaining I bring nothing but bad luck, that I might be
the worst person in the world. I can’t help my parents. I can’t
help Logan. Right now, I can’t even help myself. So, I cry.

And cry and cry and cry.

Six
•
Logan

W
ell, that didn’t
go nearly as bad as I expected. She’s likeable. Cute. She does this
thing with her nose where it scrunches up, and I’m convinced she
doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. She definitely hasn’t figured
me out, which is a good thing—because the moment I let her in is
the moment my whole charade is up. I can’t let her get close; I’m
practically plagued.

My plan is to let this girl have some fun
this summer, since it’s obvious she doesn’t have any friends here.
Once she returns home, I’ll go back to being me, and she’ll forget
I ever existed. Easy enough, right?

Except, for whatever reason, I can’t stop
thinking about her changing me.

My mind is a traitor:
So what if she
changes you? Let her.

But that’s not how it’s supposed to
work
, I think. She has a life of her own somewhere else and
can’t be bothered by me. Once upon a time, she and I would’ve been
a perfect match: cute blonde dating the all-American
quarterback.

But that was before.

And, from what it sounded like, she’s got
enough problems on her plate without dealing with mine, too. She’s
not equipped to handle all the shitty baggage I carry, so there’s
absolutely no reason for her to get involved more than she should.
Which is why I continue to revert to my original plan, the one my
mind fights against.

Walking back to Bernie’s, I decide to take a
detour. Maybe if I stick to back roads and forgotten alleyways, Big
P and his thugs won’t find me. I snort.
Yeah, right.
Sometimes I wonder if those guys have a special honing device with
my name on it.

I pass by the intersection I ran through
earlier to escape from B and Ice. The day crowd has thinned out,
and the night crowd is moving in on their territory. Loud music
blares from too many speakers, pulsing tunes so hard it vibrates
car frames. Girls sex up their look with heavy makeup and
barely-there clothing. Guys wear sunglasses . . . at night.
Cool, bro. Really fucking badass.
I feel sorry for anyone
else stuck in that mix; they don’t know what they’re getting
themselves into. It’s a maze of teenagers and college-aged kids
with suped-up, low-riding vehicles their parents doled out money
for because their child was too damn busy acting cool instead of
getting a job.

There’s a word for these kids:
wannabes
.

And if a crisis ever occurred, their parents
would be the first people they call.

I shake my head, my hair swishing at eye
level. Thank God my parents didn’t leave a silver spoon anywhere
near my mouth, because if they did, I’d be hanging out with the
likes of those dudes behind me.

Crossing the parking lot behind Bernie’s, I
notice a guy slumped against the brick wall, facing away from me.
There are only two lights in the vicinity, and neither of them is
close enough to shed clarity on this homeless guy.

“Hey, man, you all right?” I ask, checking
to see if he’s just another drunk. Most drunks pass out, can’t be
awakened, and are tough to move.

And this one definitely isn’t moving.

“Bro, you all right?” I ask again, moving
closer. I grab his shirt sleeve and tug. His body rolls toward me
enough that I see the dreads.
Oh, no.
“Jake? Can you hear
me? Jake, wake up!” “Jake, Jake, JAKE,” I call over and over again
. . . and over and over again I don’t receive a response.
He’s
blacked out from his run-in with Big P earlier, that’s all
, I
tell myself. Deep down, my stomach clenches, as if it knows this
isn’t normal. This isn’t something that happens after you get a
beat down.

I take one step to the left and a beam of
light from the parking lot illuminates Jake’s face. I wish I
hadn’t. Jake’s eyes are wide open, staring at nothing.

Blank. Void. Dead.

But his eyes aren’t the worst part. The
knife handle securely frozen against his stomach is, and it doesn’t
catch my attention as much as the piece of paper pinned underneath.
Holy shit.
Jake’s abdomen was used as a bulletin board. I
have to bite my tongue from screaming for help. Fresh tears nip the
backs of my eyeballs, and I refuse to let them fall. He didn’t
deserve this.

I should be running to the police by now,
running and never looking back.
Let them deal with his
murder
, my conscience says. But the note is calling my name,
begging me to read it. Hesitantly, I pluck the paper loose from the
knife, find some light, and read.

Bring me the money, or
you’re next.

P

Damn, it was meant for my eyes. Why didn’t
he just sign it “Big P?”
Because that would make him too easy to
find.
Of course he wouldn’t leave a literal paper trail back to
his place. So, instead, he leaves a real initial, just in case the
police, or someone else, found Jake before I did.

I have absolutely no idea how I’ll come up
with the money I owe him. I already know what the amount is: five
G’s. Five fucking G’s. How does a homeless guy locate that much
money? The answer is simple: he doesn’t. He’s offed, axed, fucked,
erased—whatever one wants to call it. I need five thousand dollars,
or I’ll end up like Jake.

Briefly, Lucas’s face flashes across my
mind, and I
know
I can’t die; he needs me to be his big
brother. He needs me to watch out for him, to have his back, to
just . . . be there. If I don’t get my shit straightened out, I’ll
never see Lucas or my parents again. The thought sickens me.
Because right now, these are the only people who matter in my life,
the only people who care what happens to me. And Charlie—he cared
enough to stop me the other day. Maybe that’s who I should contact
right now, to take care of Jake. The station is only a few blocks
from here, but with Big P out and about, I don’t want to be
discovered.

Jake deserved so much more. He stood up for
me, so it’s only right that I stand up for him.

Think, Logan, think.

I crumple the note and shove it in my
pocket. I’m pretty sure fucking with evidence at a crime scene is
illegal in every country of the world, but I don’t want the police
investigation to drag out due to me. Jake needs to return home to
his family, and they need to bury him. If the police see the note,
Jake’s body will be stuck in autopsy for days, maybe weeks, and the
police may not release him until they collect all evidence. I’m
doing the right thing. At least, for now. This may bite me in the
ass in the future, but I can’t think about that.

An anonymous call should tip the cops, which
will work out perfectly. I can be back at the cottage before they
arrive. Long gone, and out of sight.

“Rest in peace, my friend,” I say to Jake,
and then head to the nearest payphone. The whole way I constantly
glance over my shoulder, afraid of Big P showing up. Afraid he may
be nearby and fuck with Jake’s body before the police arrive.

There’s a payphone a little past the
intersection and down the street, and I don’t have a view of
Bernie’s parking lot anymore. I dial the only three digits that can
help Jake now.

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

“I’d like to report a murder.”

Seven
•
Chloe

“
C
an you believe
it?” Mom shakes her head,
tsking
the TV screen. “Sandy
Shores harbors a murderer. So unexpected.”

“Mom, every city harbors a murderer, even
the small ones,” I say, sipping the lemonade she made for me.

“But not here, Chloe, not like this. Sandy
Shores is known for its low crime rate and clean town. That’s why
people like to vacation here; it’s safe.” She shakes her head again
and returns to the kitchen. “Do you want another after that?” Mom
asks, nodding toward my cup.

“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks.”

She returns to the living room with her
coffee mug in hand and sits down on the opposite end of the couch
from me. Since Dad’s outburst last night, she’s refrained from wine
or anti-depressants; instead, catering to my every need. It’s
almost smothering. I know she means well—she’s just worried about
me—but really, I’m okay. Yes, it was freaky and scary and I hope I
never have to deal with my dad again, but I’ll pull through. It
could’ve been
a lot
worse, but the point is, it wasn’t.

“I want you to stay inside until they find
this killer,” says Mom.

Uhhh . . . no can do.
“I can’t even
go to the lake, which is, like, five feet from our house?”

“It’s much more than five feet, Chloe. And
no, I’m forbidding you to go anywhere until they have this lunatic
in custody.”

I discharge a frustrated sigh. “You can’t
keep me on lockdown. That’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair that somebody lost their life
last night, either.”

Gahhh. She always does that—makes me think
on a deeper level than what I’m used to. Makes me feel sorry for
the person I’m supposed to feel sorry for, and myself, for
misplacing my caring heart every once in a while.

Then a thought strikes me: what if that
homeless guy was Logan? What if he’s zipped up in a body bag at the
morgue? What if I’m sitting here, sipping my freshly-prepared
lemonade while he sleeps forever?

“Did they, uh, did they say who died?” I
ask.

“They haven’t released his name yet.” She
glances at me, sees the color leave my face, I’m sure. “Why? What’s
wrong?”

“I need some fresh air,” I reply.

“Oh, no you don’t. Crack your window if you
need it that badly.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll crack a window.”
Doesn’t she know I can easily slide down the lattice by our back
porch if I wanted out?

All craziness aside, that dead boy might be
Logan. I mean, what if he ran into the wrong crowd last night after
he saw me and they did this to him? My stomach rolls over. This is
not good. I can’t leave the house, I can’t go searching for him,
and I don’t know what the name of the dead guy is.

Worst. Summer. Ever.

I open the window wide enough to stick my
head out. I can’t breathe anymore, it seems like. Sandwiched
between parents who hate each other and the fact that Logan might
be dead, my throat feels like it is closing. Like, it physically
wants to suffocate itself. How does that work?

I glimpse at the lake. Bright reflections of
the sun glisten on the water, tourists steadily float downstream in
fishing boats, and our neighbors two doors down eat breakfast at a
small table on the lake’s edge. It’s way too early for me to be up
during summer vacation, but this hasn’t exactly been a normal
trip.